/53SZ.5 



COMPLIMENTS 

OF THE 

SEASON 



THE AUTHOR 



Cdte-^ 



■Cc:p:.'4uO\\J^i^ 



Thoughts 

of the 

Year 



* * 



©CIA 7^1091 



21 1324 



What Is ManF 

You men luho invented the airplane, 

You men who plotu lanes through the sea, 
You who spark fires thru the ivinds with- 
out wires, 

And dream of the marvels to he; 
Your aims are as naught in the end, 

Impotent as dew on the sod. 
For all you have done is as stars to the sun, 

To the wonderful poivers of God. 

You men tvho hew life out of stone, 

You who record music and song. 
You men in high places who rule o'er the 
races, 

To hist'ry your names may belong; 
But paint me a tanaget^s breast. 

Or grow me a pea in a pod; 
Your ivorks are the thicket where chirrups 
the cricket. 

Compared to the marvels of God. 

You men who build towers to the sky. 

You men who run trains below ground. 
You who under stress have won proud 
success — 

Whose genius has made you renowned; 
Now make me the flower in the field. 

Create me the wild golden rod. 
Your feats are the twilight eclipsed by the 
high light. 

To the infinite wisdom of God. 



To A Good Friend 



When on my travels far aivay, 
I hum my lay at close of day, 
And wo7ider what your thots can be, 
Undoubtedly, oft-times of me. 

When shadows fall on things unseen, 
A cast of sheen o'er the fields of green, 
'Tis then I thrust thru worlds of care, 
That I may share your ardent prayer. 

Dear, constant, tenderest friend, and true, 
A thought from you comes whispering thru. 
On winds of evening in their swell, 
Which sweetly tell that all is well. 

If faith can move the living hills. 
And halt the rills as so it wills, 
Our friendship then should never fail, 
Nor aught bewail the onward trail. 



Life's Seasons 

/ am standing now at morning, 
There breathes the dawn of day, 

I take my turn to laugh and cry, 
And grow and learn and play. 

I tread a path of crimson flame, 

I sing a song of fire, 
I dance a whirling witch's dance. 

Of youth and mad desire. 

In moods I pluck the hollyhocks, 
The song birds twit above, 

I hold a warm responsive hand. 
And feel the thrill of love. 

And now I stand at noontime 

Beside the surging sea. 
Each day I win or pay the score. 

The tides have tossed to me. 

I weary of the turmoil. 
The bitterness and strife, 

The never-ceasing struggle 
Of the ups and downs of life. 

I cannot halt but onward run 
To follow fortune's pace — 

He pays the toll of blood who wins. 
The swift relentless race. 

At last I stand at evening, 
The sky in radiant glow. 

Behind I leave the conflict, 
The trials and the woe. 

And out across the sunset vale — 
The golden-misted crest, 

The triumphs pass before me in 
My calm and peaceful rest. 

I hear the distant citherns chant 
The harmonies that lure 

The souls of meyi to other fields — 
The dreamer and the doer. 



Where Flows the Licking 

In the hills of old Kentucky, 
Where the Licking River flows, 

There my step is prone to lead me, 
And my thought forever goes. 

Where sunbeams gleam a-streaming, 
And the raindrops ripple rhymes. 

Oh, my song is ever tuneful, 
Of the scenes of olden times. 

Where the podophyllin's smiling, 
And the roses bloom at dawn, 

Oft I dwell in blue grass valleys. 

Where the paths of youth have gone. 

Where the woods are tinted deeply, 
With their gorgeous crown of gold, 

And the folks are ever faithful, 
And their love ne'er growth cold. 

When the loeary days o'ertake me. 
Kindly voices call me back, 

And I urge the train to speed me, 
Down the winding, moonlit track. 

Yes, I dote on old Kentucky, 
Where the Licking waters flow. 

There I find the truest friendship 
That my heart will ever know. 



A Barnyard Fantasy 

See that red hen over there, 
Proud and prim and haughty air, 
Bet I'll make a hit with her, 
When I make my feathers whirr. 
Watch me stretch and bristle too — 
And give my cock-a-doodle-do! 

There's my little speckled hen, 
Only visits now and then. 
She's a synart and dapper thing. 
Others grudge her sprightly wing, 
They all take heed when I pursue — 
And shriek my cock-a-doodle-do! 

See that tvhite hen trim and neat, 
Feathers fair from head to feet. 
Scratching by the barnyard gate, 
Where the worms predominate; 
She's the kind I like to woo — 
And cry my cock-a-doodle-do! 

There's my hen of raven black. 
Who lays in yonder clover stack, 
Plume of jet she gaily wears, 
And lightly clacks away her cares. 
So noiv ivith her I'll bill and coo — 
And crotv my cock-a-doodle-do! 

And now my blue hen hoves in sight, 
hideed a summer dream's delight, 
She is the shotv of all the flock, 
A prize she'd take on any block; 
I'll strain my graceful neck askew — 
And sing my cock-a-doodle-do! 

* * * 

The farmer came in righteous rage, 
Quoth he, "What is this, sloth or age? 
"All you do is strut and crow, 
"And search for feed with beak and toe, 
"My flock is sadly running down, 
"I have no chicks to sell in town" — 
And as the ax fell keen and true. 
He chocked his last cock-doodle-do. 



A. M. E. ZioN Sociable 

"How you do, Mis' Johnsing, 
I'se glad to see you heah to-day, 

You's sprucin' up a little 
Since yo' ole man done pass awa-a-y." 

"And there you is, Mis' Sims, 
Yo' suah am lookin' mighty fine, 

You jest must lead de singin' 
Befo' we-all let you be gwine." 

"If there ain't Mis' Link'um, 
Dey say she's some high flyah. 
But jedgin' from her looks, 
I think they's all a liah." 

"La-a-nd sakes. Mis' Jones, ha, ha! 

I made de very bes' I could, 
Dat recipe you gave me. 

It suah do me a powah o' good." 

"Oh, deah, heah cor.ie Mis' Butts, 
Did you evah — what's she got on? 

Dat niggah thinks she's steppin' 

Wearin' dem glasses rimmed ivit' hawn." 

"Y-all will come to ordah. 

While de cake and cream be served, 

And quit yo' ivicked sniilin' 
Or de pastah 'II be unnerved." 



To A Beautiful Girl 



Your teeth are a range of Bahrain pearls, 
Your skin the facile lily leaves, 

Your lips are the silke7i lotus furls, 

Your presence the perfumed zephyr's 
breeze. 

Your cry is the coo of the turtle dove, 

Your smile is fancy's flight, 
Your heart is the flame of burning love. 

Your eyes are its tnirrored light. 

Your laugh is the brook that ripples low, 
Your hair a resplendent creation, 

Your thots are the pure and drifting snow, 
Your spirt an inspiration. 



Later: To the Same Dame 

Your smile is the mask of cunning deceits, 
Your eyes are false diatnonds of paste. 

Your touch the cobra that strikes and re- 
treats, 
Your vows the barren desert's waste. 



Your kiss is the fungi that tints and blends, 
With ancient Nepal's j^oison flowers. 

Your voice is the wolf that comprehends 
His prey in the dark and tragic hours. 

Your form is the deadly spider's silk. 
That lays in wait for the naked heel. 

Nor e'en could the tvarmth of human milk, 
Take hold of your heart and 7nake it feel. 



WiWATHA Sees New York 

From the shores of Lake Begosh 
From the village of Oskosh 
Came the Indian maid Whvatha 
To the bright lights and fire-water 
To the city of high towers 
To the hamlet of Neiv York 
Came she there to see the pale face 
See the ivonders of the white race 
Came to learn and not to lark. 

But her fair and pallid sisters 

Took her, (ivith some idle jesters — 

Unsophisticated maiden 

From the Indian reservation) — 

To a prize fight at the Garden 

At the Garde7i on the Square. 

Here the fistic virtuosos 

Hallorhan and Bat Levinsky 

Were to fight for money pin-sky 

(Fifty thousand on the side). 

In the corners were their trainers 

Lefty Finn and Biffe^n Doolan 

(Former battlers, noiv they school 'em) 

And their seconds were Pat Hogan 

Tim McGoork and Mickey Grogan. 

Then the gonn rang for the going 

For the going and the milling; 

Each man squared off for the melee 

Both inen squared off for the melee 

And the fight was fast and furious 

The croivd ivas morbid curious 

Levinsky upper ed ivith his right 

But Hallorhan hit left handed 

Struck left handed but he missed 

Missed because he'd been knocked cock-eyed 

And his left ear was hanging lop-side 

And the blood oozed from his mouth. 



WiWATHA Sees New York 

(ConpludPd) 

Then he countered to the nooodle 
Kicked Levinsky's big flapdoodle 
Poked his elboiv in his plexus 
Churned his dinner into breakfast 
All the time Levinsky battled 
On Hallorhan's nose staccato 
Beat his liver (ma non troppo) 
And his gizzard (a la grotto) 
Thus they battered each one mellow 
While the mob let out a bellow. 

Wiivatha watched the gory pounders 
Heard the hoots and jibes of rounders 
Till the Indian nature in her 
Was no more to be contained — 
Contained no longer in her. 
And she jumped up from her seat-um 
Yelling "Wahoo Hallorhan, beat 'im 
Tommy hawk him, scalp 'im, jazz 'im! 
Heap big knuckle hit him, razz 'im!" 
But the fight ivas quickly over 
When Hallorhan landed squarely 
Squarely on Levinsky's bean 
And Levinsky fell a-groaning 
Like a kookoo with the asthma 
Or a tree toad with lumbago 
Or a craw-fish with the tetter 
Or the braying of an ass. 

And they asked Wiwatha gently 
As she left for home presently 
Hoiv she liked her visit to New York 
So she answered as she giggled 
And her gitchi goolo wiggled 
(As ivell 7mght be surmised) 
"Take me back to yonder steepee 
To the ivigwam and the teepee 
Where the folks are civilized." 



Religion 

The music of an organ reached my ears 
As wandered I along a city street; 
A spired church around the way appears 
And en'tring there I occupied a seat. 

The service went by abitrary law. 
At once we all were called upon to pray. 
I wondered how the ritual could draw 
The congregation meekly to obey. 

Remorseless custom must have gripped their 

wills; 
No sign of foretaste, utter lack of awe — 
The barren faith this empty form fulfills 
Reflected on the faces that I saw. 

And as I sat observing quite alone, 
I pondered on the spell religion holds, 
That by an empty form we might atone 
For all the wrongs the weening mind un- 
folds. 

Is this the path that leads to Heaven's door — 
An hour's penance promise of hereafter? 
Or might we be more certain on that score 
By daily turning tear-drops into laughter? 



Trouble 

"Double, double, toil and trouble, 
Fire burn and chauldron bubble." 

This wierdly chant from old Macbeth 
Has haunted man from birth till death, 
This thing ivhich never comes alone, 
Which turns our pillow into stone. 
Along life's ivay, in darkling 'pool. 
Where slips the sage, where falls the fool, 
It walloivs in the murky slime, 
It knows no laiv, respects no time. 
Treacherous it, with fang and claw 
To twine us in its greedy maw. 
And not a hundred thousand years 
Have eased its sting or stilled its fears. 

It strikes when life is gay or dull 

To satisfy its brutish skull; 

Like swirling eddies, pulls us down 

And millions in its tear moat drown. 

Its torments bring their direful blights 

And with thetn many sleepless nights; 

No mercy has it ever shown. 

When, strong or weak, its victims groan. 

It turns no ear to heed our cries. 

It ever lives, it never dies. 

E'en after ive have gained the hill 
Beyond the grindifig dolor mill, 
There still are those we left behind, 
Bereft of peace and racked of mind. 
Nor will his terrors ever end 
Until the skies above unbend. 
For always some ivith gasping breath 
Shall take the cry from old Macbeth: 

"Double, double, toil and trouble. 
Fire burn and chauldron bubble." 



f 



To Vi — The Perfect Dancer 

My hours with her are golden and they 

leave a mellow gleam, 
A swan-like vision floating in the ripple of 

the stream, 
Divinely slow — our hearts aglow — 
The measures of the music grow. 
With wistful eyes I see her rise, 
A winging queen of butterflies. 



The rythmic motions of her lines are waves 

of bonny grace — 
A red-winged houri come to life to flit from 

place to place. 
My pulses beat like wind on wheat 
As glide and turn are joined complete, 
A breath of light, a joy of sight, 
Her darice to crown the perfect night. 



I did not know that nitnble feet could thrill 

me like a tnaiden's kiss 
That bursts upon my fevered face and drugs 

me with its bliss! 
In laughing glee she smiles to me, 
A smile that all the world should see! 
A fairy dower, a bud in floiver, 
And youth has danced its fleeting hour. 



When life's parade of gaudy years are faded 

from my priyne, 
And I no longer dance with her the airy 

steps of time, 
A-lack-a-day ! I'm on my way, 
To dreamy isles of Mandalay, 
To ponder lohen — the gods or men — 
Will fan the flame that lit me then. 



To Dixie 



We all love you, Dixie, 

War7n as you are, 
Bathed in the sunbeams — 

Dangling your star. 



We dream of your glory. 
Lured by the light, 

Holding us close 

To your breast all night. 



The call of your voice 

Your children have heard, 

Your echoing cry, 

Your wandering word. 



Yes, you are romance, 
And you are song. 

To rest on your bosom 
We yearn and long. 



No rose in its arbor 
Breathes siveeter air, 

No queen in her palace 
Has outlook ynore fair. 



Where Paradise comes, 
The earth to embrace. 

Our Dixie, indeed. 

Your' re a wonderful place! 



The Songs of Francett 

O placid maid, with eyes that glisten, 
Lips that sing — and we stop to listen — 
Whence comes thy song? — a thought exprest. 
Between whose lines lie dreams comprest. 

In solemn hours, and quiet too. 
Your song brings memories fond of you; 
Each lovely note as from the soul. 
Pours forth its volume of the ivhole. 

Among the interwoven strands 
Of love and home and other lands. 
Your voice with music richly stored, 
Awakes the latent, vibrant chord. 

With fervent verse and melodies, 
Our pulses rise in ecstasies — 
Bejeweled throat whose golden lyres, 
The rapture of our heart inspires. 

Fantastic quatrains we'd indite, 
Expressive of our deep delight 
With such a warbling tongue as thine — 
The thrush itself would call divine. 

Sweet singer of the treasured hours, 
Thy gifted brow enwreathed in flowers, 
What sixth sense power to some is given. 
That they may sound the tones of Heaven! 



The French Quarter 

Ancient French Quarter, 

Recount her story, 
Mark her traditions. 

Behold her glory! 

Look in the lens of the mystic past. 
The Father of Waters fringed with masts, 
Toivers and steeples and windowed walls, 
Streets where precepts of yesterday calls. 

Thoroughfares lined with traffic and trade, 
Once the proud passage of grandame's parade, 
Flourish of revelry, riot and pleasure, 
Pirates fast squandering ill-gotten treasure. 

Rickety tenements, no7idescript shops, 
Clutter of balconies hung from the tops, 
Stately cathedrals, mansions and stoops. 
Pick-pockets, gamblers, knaves and their dupes. 

Frenchmen, Spaniards and soldiers of fortune, 
Round the old slave block the negroes are tor- 

turin', 
'Cajins that live on the bayous nearby. 
Voluptuous Creoles ivith dark, piercing eye. 

Motley French Market, fish cribs and stalls, 
Babel of foreigners, curses and brawls, 
Polyglot neivspapers seen now and then, 
Read by the people in palace and den. 

Mardi Gras crowds in costume and mask. 
Wine of Burgundy in casket and flask — 
Some come to mangle and some come to die, 
So goes the concourse as time passes by. 

Archaic French Quarter, 

Ponder her story. 
Revere her rich history, 

Marvel her glory! 



The 'Gajin Mother 

Thru her eyes where tears have leapt, 
On her lonely hovel step, 
Sits the 'Cajin mother weeping, 
Watching where her child is sleeping. 
Where the waving willow's bleat 
Makes a sound so thin and sweet, 
Where the lilies and rosemary 
Give her peaceful sanctuary. 
And the bird of silver wi7ig 
Nests in sad remembe^^ing. 

Hoiv could life but sear and harden. 
As she trudged in house and garden. 
And her grief was heavy, very. 
As she faintly moans ma cherie, 
Little lips that notv are dumb 
When the evening shadows come; 
Once she held her on her knee. 
Precious girlie, wild and free; 
Softly nursed her to her breast, 
Watched her eyelids close in rest. 
Till the anguish o'er her stole. 
When its death had wrung her soul. 

From the grave in slyvan view. 
Fresh with an eternal dew. 
Like to God's U7ichanging law. 
Comes the child's como sava — 
"Sorrow not, my dear, my dear, 
It is not so dreadful here." 



My States of the Union 

In Kaiisas, from whose plains I spring, 
The sunfloivers bend on morning's wing, 
And every man is horn a king — 
Her praise I always sing. 

Youth's dreams drop from her linden tree, 

The locusts whir a melody, 

Her skies awake my minstrelsy — 

She ever beckons me. 

In great Ohio's proud domain, 
Where famous statesmen wax and wane, 
And folks are bred of classic strain — 
/ long for her again. 

Whatever nature should possess. 
To give the world for usefulness. 
Her men for good of man will press — 
The people there to bless. 

In Louisiana's floral weal, 
Her wistful and her strange appeal. 
The old world and the new congeal — 
Aiid make the senses reel. 

Her quaint romance of Creole lore, 
The mystic of her days of yore. 
Three nations' flags have flown before — 
Her charm I still adore. 

In Illinois, majestic state. 
Where shining fields perambulate, 
"I WILL" is blazoned on her gate — 
To her I trust my fate. 

Life comes aspiriyig everywhere. 
Against Chicago's surging air, 
I listen when her winds blow fair — 
/ know what voice is there. 



iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiy 

1922-23. 
Good Friend: 

AT this season as one year is closed be- 
l\ hind us with all its events and an- 
-*- -^ other opens upon us with its rising 
star of hope, it is the custom among our 
people to send to one another a token of 
remembrance. 

To you I send the "Thoughts of the Year" 
gathered together in the fleeting moments of 
the passing days. 

I am not a poet. While appreciating the 
celebrated bards who have left their sonnets 
to bless the ages, I have always regarded the 
average amateur poet as a "nut." When I 
started putting verse together I did it to get 
my mind off of business problems, so I con- 
sidered I had nothing to lose ; i. e., I would as 
leave be a crazy poet as a crazy business 
man. Hence the effort and the apology for 
its imperfections. 

While on long journeys I find it restful to 
compose verse; when weary it is a balm; 
when sleepless, a surcease; when lonely, a 
friend. It brings quiescence to the mind, 
peace to the heart, and tranquility to the 
soul. 

We should all write verse; the business 
man in his recreation, the woman in the 
spare hours of the home, the child in the 



iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiy 

development of its mind. When we write it 
we learn to love it for its thrill. Poetry is 
the rhythm of life, the true message of the 
heart, the silent song of God implanted in 
the mind of man that he may tune his being 
in perfect harmony with the music of the 
sphere. 

I have thot of you during the past year; 
that's why I send you this. I could send you 
something else, but nothing as priceless as a 
Good Thot. A Good Thot is a spiritual 
flower and too often we do not send the flow- 
ers until our friends are gone. Why are 
we prone to withhold our appreciation? 
"Seven cities fought for Homer, dead, thru 
whose streets the living Homer begged for 
bread." 

What is more animating from time to time 
than to open the door where envy cannot 
enter and behold the progress of our friends, 
and bid them well? 

May the Christmas season and the New 
Year bring you contentment and happiness 
and as much prosperity as the vicissitudes of 
the times may graciously permit. This is 
my earnest wish for you. 



.,h,m.^l!^"^ Of" CONGRESS 

■lliilllllilliillllll 

015 937 273 A 



